She bristles at this, her brown eyes flashing. “You don’t know anything about my process.”
“You’re right,” I concede. “So why don’t you show me? Let me see this symphony you’ve been working on.”
Ana pales slightly, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. “I… It’s not ready.”
I push harder, sensing we’re on the verge of a breakthrough. “Come on, Ana. Just a peek. Artist to artist.”
For a long moment, I think she might refuse. Then, with a defeated sigh, she retreats to the bedroom and returns with a leather-bound portfolio. She hesitates, then reluctantly hands it to me, eyes downcast.
I open it, already suspecting what I’ll find. Empty pages stare back at me, pristine and accusing. The sight of those blank pages hits harder than I expected. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror before a gig when nothing sounds right. The empty, accusing silence before the music comes back.
“Ana,” I say softly, closing the portfolio. “It must hurt to stare at this all day.”
She won’t meet my eyes. “I told you it wasn’t ready.” Her voice wavers, the tone of someone bravely holding back a tidal wave of emotion.
“Hey.” I reach out, tilting her chin up gently. “This doesn’t mean you’re not talented. It just means you need a new approach.”
A glimmer of hope flashes in her eyes. “And you think you know what that approach is?”
I grin. “As a matter of fact, I do. Let me be your coach. You don’t have to be like me.” I give her my most charming smile.
“No one could be like you—or would want to,” she chides.
“Exactly. Just let me nudge you in a different direction and you can see if it suits you, if it gets your creative juices flowing.” I hold up the empty pages. “What have you got to lose?”
Ana considers for a long moment. Then, a mischievous smile spreads across her face—one I’ve never seen before, and instantly want to see more of.
“Alright,” she says. “On one condition.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Name it.”
“If you’re going to give me a makeover, I get to give you one, too.”
My jaw drops as I realize I’ve walked right into her trap. Touché, Ana. Touché.
“Deal,” I say finally, extending my hand. As we shake on it, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve just gotten myself into.
Ana’s smile widens. “Excellent. Now, where shall we begin?”
Her eyes sparkle, and it hits me that this makeunder might change more than her. Maybe helping Ana loosen up will knock a few dents out of my own armor, too. My manager would kill to see me domesticated.
Chapter Seven
Anastasia
The morning after our makeunder agreement, Nyxx suggests we head into town to find our new looks. “Can’t transform without costumes,” he says with that devil-may-care grin. Forty minutes later, we’re winding down the two-lane road toward Hamlin, windows down, warm air whipping through the car.
As we drive into Hamlin Town, I can’t help sneaking glances at Nyxx. The thought of seeing him in something other than ripped jeans and shirtless chaos is weirdly thrilling—and a little unsettling.How did I get used to that version of him so fast?
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, catching me mid-glance.
“Just wondering why we’re swapping wardrobes.”
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking it through. “Clothes set a mood. They tell the world who we are—and sometimes trap us in it. Maybe this’ll help us both see things from a different angle.”
“Ever considered a less… dramatic style?” I tease.
Nyxx chuckles. “Once, for my high school graduation. My mom begged for a photo before I ‘ruined myself with that rock and roll nonsense.’”
